


the love song of edmundo diaz

by elisela



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Family Feels, Family Fluff, M/M, The Fucking Softest, a love letter to edmundo diaz, buck loves his family so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24057457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: It’s the little things that Buck loves most, like Eddie being able to order for him without asking what he wants, like a tap on the thigh to communicate, the secret language between their bodies that only they understand, a rub of his thumb along Eddie’s as he hands him his drink to signal affection.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Comments: 25
Kudos: 447





	the love song of edmundo diaz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tabbytabbytabby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabbytabbytabby/gifts).



> Tabby's given us a lot of good Buddie content so I thought I'd do something for her in return. She asked for family feels but Buck kinda turned this into the Love Song of Edmundo Diaz ... I can't be sorry.

Light has not yet broken over the horizon when Buck bundles a mostly sleeping Christopher into the truck; there are sleepy protests streaming from his mouth, the sounds running together before they can be formed into anything distinguishable. Buck kisses his son’s forehead before he closes the door, and walks around the truck just to get into the backseat again, wedging a pillow between Christopher’s head and the window. 

Despite the dark, he can see that Eddie’s looking at him with a soft, open expression when he crawls back out, and as he interlocks his fingers in front of him and pulls his arms out and up, Eddie’s hands land on his waist and he leans in. Buck’s stomach pushes against him as he bends his back, lifts up on his toes and pulls himself into a stretch, holding it for a few seconds before coming back down and resting his forearms on his husband’s shoulders.

The moment is quiet; the lights are off in the houses that surround them, a hush settled over the block of their sleeping neighbors. He leans his forehead against Eddie’s, their faces close, lashes fluttering against his skin. They’ve been married for almost two years now, together not much longer than that (Eddie’s impulsivity had surprised and delighted Buck—and their families—but putting rings on their fingers so far hadn’t changed a single thing about their lives except for Buck’s last name), and it still took Buck by surprise sometimes at how easy it all was. How easy it was to be with Eddie, to belong to him and with him, how easy it was to be loved by him, how easy it is to reside in this stillness.

“Got the bags,” Eddie mutters. He’s so close that Buck can feel some of the movement of his lips as he talks. “You only had that red one, right?” 

Buck hums in assent. “Backpack?”

“Yours and his,” Eddie says. “Did you put the—”

“Behind the driver’s seat,” Buck responds. He leans forward, presses their mouths together with more intent. Eddie’s lips are soft under his own and they part gently, immediately. Their mouths don’t move much; Buck kisses Eddie’s bottom lip, drawing it in softly before leaning back. “House locked?”

“Just double checked,” Eddie says. “You driving?”

“You wish.”

Eddie laughs and pushes at him, fingertips pressing into Buck’s sides without much pressure at all. They climb into the truck, Buck stretching out and resting his hand on Eddie’s thigh as he drives. The early morning wake up has never bothered him and today is no different; they’re not on any sort of schedule, just a desire to beat the beginnings of rush hour and start their adventure off right. They’ve barely made it out of their neighborhood when Buck taps Eddie’s thigh and, sighing, Eddie turns into the driveway of a Starbucks.

“We had coffee at home,” Eddie says, his mouth quirking into a half smile, before rolling down the window and ordering.

It’s the little things that Buck loves most, like Eddie being able to order for him without asking what he wants, like a tap on the thigh to communicate, the secret language between their bodies that only they understand, a rub of his thumb along Eddie’s as he hands him his drink to signal affection. 

Dawn breaks as they approach Santa Barbara; Buck is unsurprised when Eddie turns off the main road and into a parking lot, deserted except for a small taco truck tucked up next to a brick building. Buck takes a moment to admire his husband as he stands and chats with the workers, arms crossed against the chill in the air, laughing easily. Eddie’s always been beautiful, every variation of him that Buck has seen: childhood photos and shaky home movies of a smiling baby with a messy head of dark hair, a toddler who hadn’t quite lost the round baby cheeks and tummy, a slender teenager dancing with his grandmother at a wedding, the photo of an unsmiling soldier in desert khaki, the man who had stood by his side and promised to be his forever with a gentle smile on his face. Buck’s favorite Eddie is all of them, is whichever one he wakes up to in the morning and falls asleep with at night—the grumpy one who wants more sleep, the one pushing him to be a better person every single day, the one who brings their son in for family snuggles before the the world wakes up—Buck loves them all. He gets lost in watching, in cataloguing every movement, every dip of Eddie’s head and shake of his shoulders. He tries not to give in to the urge to memorize every inch of his skin very often, every tiny wrinkle in the corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiles—he knows Eddie’s uncomfortable with focused attention anywhere outside of their bedroom—but Eddie’s blissfully unaware that Buck is currently melting into his seat as he takes in the day-old scruff along his sharp jawline, the relaxed curve of his shoulders. 

Buck read once that the Egyptians had fifty words for sand, and he can’t believe that that can be true when he can’t even come up with one that accurately describes how much he loves Eddie. Eddie is like sunlight in all his darkest places, he is the time before dawn where everything is still, he is the colors and the greys and every shade in between. 

Eddie returns with their breakfast—three foil wrapped burritos—and a cup of horchata that he will drink at least half of while he teases Buck for liking sweet drinks so early in the morning; Buck knows this like he knows the sun will rise the next day. He is so caught up in his adoration of Eddie that he can’t wait until his hands are free to pull him across the center console and kiss him, hands on his arms, his chest, his face, Eddie’s skin cool to the touch but warming as Buck brushes his fingertips across it. Eddie kisses him back gently, without speaking, unhurried.

A sound from the back makes them both turn, but Chris just shifts and continues sleeping. 

They move back into their seats as Eddie twists the key in the ignition. The sun is fully settled on the horizon and rising, lighting the sky up pink and orange, but Buck is too distracted by the beauty of his husband’s hands on the steering wheel to really notice. He shakes himself out of it a moment later and unwraps Eddie’s breakfast, returning the smile Eddie gives him, giving in to the urge to reach over and touch his cheek, drag his thumb across Eddie’s lower lip briefly. 

They haven’t spoken since they left LA, the silence comfortable between them. Eddie drives with the radio off, the hum of Highway 101 strong beneath their feet. There’s no structure to this trip they’re taking; they have no reservations tonight, no real destination. Their vague plan is to take Christopher to the mountains, to introduce him to fresh air and a view of the stars that a city like Los Angeles will never afford. So they’d decided to head north along the coastal highway, to let go of control and let the wind (and Christopher) carry them along their way; their only precaution is a set of camping equipment stored in the truck bed that Buck doubts they’ll need to use.

Chris wakes as they’re driving through Pismo Beach; Buck had been tempted to wake him when they passed Vandenberg, knowing that Chris would appreciate talking about shuttle launches much more than Eddie would, but in the end let him sleep. But now he’s awake, happily eating his cold breakfast burrito, and the car is filled with the noise of his and Eddie’s voices—Buck’s favorite sound in the world. 

Their morning passes more quickly than it has a right to; they get out at Big Sur and walk out to the ocean, stretch their legs against the sand and feel the weak warmth of the early May sun. Buck feels loose, free from the weight of expectations and schedules as he wrestles with his son, stretched out on an old woven blanket, ending up face down in the sand as Chris stretches out on top of him, victorious. 

And Eddie—Eddie doesn’t say _I love you_ very often. Not with words, not the way Buck does, whispering it into his skin at night, laughing it against Eddie’s ear as their bodies pass each other in morning while they get ready for their day, leaving words inked into post-it notes and scraps of paper and napkins. Eddie loves him like this: the happiness on his face when he watches Buck and Chris, the way his hands press into Buck’s skin, the way his body goes soft and pliant under Buck’s attention, the constant presence against the loneliness that can still creep up when Buck leasts expects it, a protective guard against anything that may hurt him. 

Buck doesn’t need words, but Eddie gives them to him anyway, tipping his head against Buck’s as they watch Christopher drawing designs into the beach. “S’nice,” Eddie says. “Let’s just say here forever.”

Buck holds his home in his husband and his son, needs nothing but to be with the two of them. As long as they’re here, he’s content. But—”you promised me soup dumplings in Chinatown,” he reminds Eddie. Eddie shoves at him and Buck pulls him down, allowing Eddie’s body to cover his own. “Here’s good, too,” he says. “I’m always good if I’ve got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Eddie Diaz is a good and kind and loving man and I will never apologize for writing him as such.
> 
> [prompt me on tumblr](https://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com/ask) or follow [hearteyesforbuck](https://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com/)


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